


You're Not Too Ugly

by faabyy21



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Gen, Red Dragon Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faabyy21/pseuds/faabyy21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events in Hannibal (book). Lecter is free and his obsession with Will Graham, now a bitter alcoholic and boat repairer, continues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not Too Ugly

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to Ash and Laura for baring through my first drafts...  
> ENJOY

Will Graham’s home in Marathon, Florida was secluded. In the divorce he and Molly  sold the house and split the money. She took the dogs, Willy,and whatever furniture she liked, leaving Will with only an old couch, and whatever wooden furniture he had made. That's still the only decorations in his house. At his temple, his hair greyed, and his facial hair was slowly conquered by whites. His left eye drooped over a thin pink line, hanging slightly lower than his right. A living, breathing Picasso, though the result of some else's masterpiece. His blue eyes perpetually red and glassy from his constant drunkenness. Ten years after Dolarhyde usurped his home Will can't remember sobriety.

Will made a living fixing boats, usually having just enough customers to pay for his bills and a good bottle of gin. Always just enough. Children in town stared at him when parents came into his shed. He was used to it now, they're curious, they don't know. He hoped he hadn't caused nightmares. Still he preferred the brave ones who would come up to him and ask about his scar, only to be pulled away with a mouthed 'sorry' from their parents.

In his home the soundtrack consisted of the faint sound of the waves hitting against the side of his house, and his boat rhythmically pounding against shore. He could hear a couple of bats outside, and a creaking floor tile he had made note to fix though never addressed. The house sat away from all, though small and old, it withstood all the hurricanes Florida had sent his way. His father had taught him how to secure frail houses against water.

Looking through that day's mail, Will noticed Christmas had recently passed as all the stores offered post holiday discounts, and the expensive envelope at the bottom of a pile of cheap catalogue paper.

 

> _My dearest Will,_
> 
> _I continue to patiently wait for an answer from you. One day I know you will be curious to start a conversation, and I shall be waiting._
> 
> _This is your tenth Christmas without Molly and Willy, have you forgotten them yet? The boy must be about to finish University, he's going to be a fine professional, a tragic life makes for strong characters._
> 
> _Don't we know about that?_
> 
> _I'm still curious as to what your face looks like, Maybe I will pay you a visit soon._
> 
> _If you ever choose to answer, address it to Dr. Fell, I will be waiting._
> 
> __
> 
> _Merry Christmas,_
> 
> _Hannibal Lecter_

Will Graham never read the letter. That night he would start a bonfire outside of his house, lighting the letter, holding the flame up to the quick starter, throwing it into the pile of wood, letting it burn until the last of the golden edge disappeared. Over the years he had learned that the burnt letters gave a nice, particular smoke to fish. Once the flame was big and warm, Will placed a grill carefully onto it, and allowed it to heat up. Placing two fat sea bass on it, he sat poking at the flames as they cracked, loud against the cricket filled night and the sizzling of the fish’s skin. The juices oozing from the fish into the fire gave the air a savory smokey smell. Will curled in front of the fire, watching the flames dance, softly grazing against the fish, caressing them with their long, hot fingers. Will longed for touch, though he repeated to himself he didn't need it, yet he often pleasured himself to the thought of Molly's lips.

He left a plate at the door, aware that a stray would do him the favor of cleaning the  plate for him. The other he took inside and ate accompanied by microwaved vegetables and a glass of cheap, boxed wine.

Winter was always slower for Will's business, even in Florida, where there was no clear definition of "winter", Will felt in his wallet the change of seasons. In the summer the starting fathers would quickly break their new boats, and he'd have families over with massive brand motors that really was nothing, but he wasn't about to pass a paycheck. In the spring, college students wrecked their speed boats as they raced half drunk too late for much to be visible under the scarce moonlight. In autumn, the first of the snow birds would come from the north and ask him to do a check up on the old, unused motor that had been rusting for a year. Then winter came, and the holidays when people were spending money elsewhere, Will would have very little work. Families got together, very few went to the beach, and the ones that did were not locals. So they were better off renting a boat for a day than owning their own and asking for Will's services.  

Trips to the store were more about his drinks those days. He'd much rather have his cupboard stocked than his fridge, if anything he knew he could fish lunch and dinner, and coffee was enough for breakfast. His unhealthy eating habits showed on the seam meant to fall on his shoulder, laying on his upper arm, an inch or so below its intended resting place, and pants held only by a belt with an extra home crafted hole.

At the store, in front of him stood a man, tall and lean with greying hairs peeking from under the back of his fedora. The skin of his forearms and back of his neck a light golden crisp of a man that's been spending days on a pool side. He was buying the best of the best, all organic, natural products. Will wondered if he owned a yacht. He always made good deals with rich snowbirds.

"Merci" the man said to cashier.

The man already stuck out from the white trash that shopped at the store, but the usuals had gotten used to seeing one of the odd ones come in to get whatever needed for a day at the beach in the smaller keys ahead, but he did not catch Will's attention until the man paid the extensive and expensive shopping list in cash, rather than the expected shiny, plastic, platinum credit card. The bills were between his index and middle finger, brushing against the small, slightly raised skin between the man's long, claw-like fingers.

The cashier passed Will's few items through the scan. He kept his face down, only raising his gaze to check his total due. He knew his eye made people uneasy. Will was slowly pulling his thin wallet out when the cashier stopped him.

"It's been covered for, sir. The man in front of you left money, told me to pay for whoever was behind him, oh and to give you this." She placed a bottle of wine that had to have been specially saved for the man that had just left. It was a rare bottle, dated back to Will's birth year with art work resembling a Picasso.

He frowned and grabbed the bottle carefully. "Do you usually carry this bottle here?"

"No, it was ordered from a store in New Orleans, for him specifically."

"Do you know who he is? Does he do this often?"

She politely smiled and shrugged, shaking her head. "I don't know, sir, I've never seen him before."

Will nodded and grabbed his things, giving her a small nod as a thank you. He stepped outside, made his way to his truck, and packed the bags into the trunk. He looked at bottle for another moment, holding it up against the light to see if there were any useful fingerprints on the glass. Nothing. He put it in the passenger's side after entering the car and took a deep breath. His hands gripped the wheel tightly, his forehead rested against it. He didn't move for a few minutes.

Graham took a deep breath. Slowly. He turned on the ignition. The roar of the engine calmed him. He was free to go.

In the distance Graham could see his house, lonely and secluded from all the other suburbs and trailer parks in the area. He parked the truck on the side of the house. Staring at the bottle that had been given to him, he contemplated its fate. Maybe he was being paranoid and this was some strange new trend the rich had to not seem so greedy and detached. Maybe it was him. Maybe he was flattering himself, after all he achieved his goal and acquired a new protégé—Clarice Starling. No one was forcing him, still he took the bottle against his will. He tossed it on top of the rest of his bags once he had grabbed everything, and headed inside.

It wasn't until he went outside to leave the usual dinner plate for strays outside his door when he saw the red flag of his mailbox was up. The sun had set an hour ago, a fly zapped out of existence when embracing the enticing blue light. In the dim light of the lamp post at the end of the street, he made out the red flag above his mailbox. Will frowned. He had not sent any letters. Who was he going to send letters to? He went back inside, grabbed his shoes, gun, and small flashlight before stepping outside. Inside the mailbox, a small piece of white paper glared back at him. He felt the rough texture of the paper against his callused fingers. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket before heading inside again.    

Graham took a seat in front of his TV: old, large, covered in dust, and a spider web hanging from the back. He poured himself two fingers of gin, and allowed himself to relax into the chair. He felt the paper in his pocket and retrieved it. Will took the first drink off his glass and let out a sigh. His hand traced the edge of the paper, thick and smooth, threatening to cut into his flesh. There was no question as to who had left the paper for him. There were other questions he had.

It took him another drink before he chose to open it.

> _I see you still wear the same atrocious aftershave._

Under it, a sketch of Will shyly looking away from all of society. Hiding his eye, his past, from the few that had the displeasure to see him. He cowered in the drawing, like a scolded pup, shrinking into himself. The focus was on his scar and his dead eye, the thin, pink line rising on top of the rest of his face. It stared at him, unmoving, unchanging. Just glaring. The drawing filled the room with it's loud screech that deafened Graham.

Under it, it continued:  

 

> _Never forget who gave you the best one._
> 
> _See you soon,_
> 
> _An old friend,_
> 
> _Ps. You're not too ugly._

 

Will crumpled the paper in his hand to make the screaming stop. He compressed his hand around it, his knuckles tense, turning white. The former profiler finished his drink and closed his eyes. He dived into the darkness behind his lids, swimming through nothingness, the muffled screech still audible. A throbbing pain began at his temples, and traveled to his eye. Lecter had his address. Lecter had seen him, had smelled him. Turning the letter into the authorities meant he would be dead soon. He had taken on Lecter before, but how many more times could he let the doctor kill him before he found no way back?  At this point fighting for his life was not something he'd be willing to do. After Dolarhyde stabbed him, the only thing that kept him fighting for health was the selfish thought of having Molly for another year if even that. He knew normalcy would end then, and it hasn’t come back. As dull his life had become, his security was always hanging by a thread. He still wondered how he made it through every month.

Luring Lecter in by exposing himself was still not an option. If Hannibal Lecter had wanted him dead, it would have happened thirteen years ago, after their last encounter before he was incarcerated. Lecter would drain him, torture him, make him beg for death, and Will’s pride was too big, still, to let Lecter have his way. He had, inadvertently, allowed himself to trust Lecter long ago, allowed him to see him at his lowest. And again when he consulted Lecter for the Tooth Fairy case, now he had two reminders not to let Lecter into his life. He had no more places for scars.

Will stood again, the hard floor cold against his feet, he felt like a monk walking over burning rocks. Reaching the bottle of gin he had left on the counter, he grabbed it and took a good chug from the bottle, the liquor spilling from the sides of his mouth. A single drop traveled from the corner of his lips, down his neck, until it was soaked by the fabric of his cheap, stained shirt. The demons of a different past life slipping through to the present, and Will’s throbbing temples dazed him. He watched the glass fill almost to the brim. The clear liquid an oasis in front of him, a siren swimming in a tank singing him to sleep. Graham sipped the glass slowly.

Back in the couch, Will looked at the empty glass in front of him as if it held the answer to a higher power. Inside his mind, he had become functional again, or as functional as he could be. We could pretend he was trying to solve the dilemma of Hannibal Lecter, but he ended up falling on his side, falling into a drunken, dreamless sleep.

In the distance, Hannibal Lecter stood outside the little house, with all its lights on, walking through the flat fields. In the distance, the house looked like a boat on the sea. Will Graham is not feeling safe inside. Lecter closed his eyes and raised his chin ever so slightly, a barely visible smile took over his lips. He could hear the sketch screaming at Will, reminding him of their past.

Finding Will’s information was a lot easier than he thought, especially considering he’s looking for someone who wanted to detach from his own past and completely seclude himself. His home address and phone number were barely an issue. Will only owned a cellphone, which he used to keep tabs with a few clients, and it took Clarice maybe three attempts to get to the records of Marathon, Florida. Getting the bank information was the hardest, Will was no idiot and chose carefully which bank to trust. Yet, Hannibal was able to freely make small donations whenever Will fell short. More than once Hannibal hoped he’d be found. Now it only took one push of a button to ensure he would be noticed. He hadn’t come to Marathon, Florida to watch Will get drunk. He thought of Graham often, he admired Graham, and wanted another conversation with him. From his pocket he retrieved a phone, and a tap on the screen emptied Will’s bank account as easily as he had filled it many times before.

In the morning, Will woke with the house spinning. He looked around shakily and rubbed his eyes. It took him a moment to stabilize on his feet. His ears whistled a high pitch, a frequency at the highest points of human hearing. To the kitchen he stumbled, and opened the faucet with one movement. He wet his face, feeling the irregularities between his eyes in between his finger. A blind person would have a field day with him. He lowered his face into the sink, feeling a pressure behind his left eye, like going too deep into a pool and feeling a strong pressure at the temples. The cold water splashed on the back of his head, and a few stray droplets found their way down his shirt, traveling down the curve of his spine.

Graham rose his head, hitting against the faucet, “Fuck! Fuck this damned thing!” He groaned putting a hand where he had hit, carefully raising his head. With his other hand he found the key and turned off the water, kicking against the innocent counter that held his current nemesis. He reached for paper towels, dried his face, and held one to the back of his neck. A quick check, he was bleeding slightly. Exasperated at himself, he continued to put pressure on the unnecessary injury. He reached for the bottle he had half emptied the previous night. Holding it between his elbow and his body, Will used his free hand to uncap it. He did not bother with pouring it on to a glass this time.

Graham chugged down on the bottle until he had to come up for a breath. With his eyes closed, and his throat burning, he took deep slow breaths. He looked back at the glass bottle, and it’s bottom threatened him.  It glared back at him with a mocking smirk. Through the years he had learned to keep back ups in storage for a rainy day. Rainy days came and went, and now Will encountered the only alcohol left in his home aside from the one sitting on the counter. The Weeping Woman of Picasso, on the label of the gifted wine bottle, mocked his anxieties and wounded his pride as he contemplated drinking it after the current one was done. Alas, Hannibal Lecter would not get the satisfaction.

His blood alcohol level was probably above the limit, but the thing about being an alcoholic for as long as he had been, is that alcohol treats you differently. Without his routined drink he would not be able to function, and ghosts he did not want haunting him would seep from the walls. In his old truck, he drove to the liquor store, the tiny local paradise that carried the cheapest of the strongest spirits. He went to the counter with his usual bottle of choice and a pack of cigarettes. He didn’t bother raising his head to look at the total when he handed the card over, he already knew what the total would be, $18.05.

“Sorry, sir, the bank denied the transaction.”

Will frowned, “Try again, that doesn’t make sense.”

He obliged but shook his head, “The bank says you have insufficient funds to cover the purchase.”

He quickly reached for his wallet, only to realise all he had in cash were a couple of bucks. “Can you open a tab? I’ll pay you by the end of the month.”

“Sorry, sir, Boss doesn’t allow that.”

Will sighed. He clenched his jaw and fists, so hard he felt his nails dig into his skin. It took another deep breath for him to be able to speak. “Alright. Whatever.” He childishly pushed the pack of cigarettes off the counter, making them hit the back wall, then turned back to the entrance. Will’s shoulder hit harshly against someone’s coming in, which destabilized him a little, but he never lifted his gaze. He let out a low huff and continued onto his truck.

He sat on his couch like Jesus nailed to the cross and stared at his empty, black television. The leftovers of his bottle were not salvaged, as much as he tried to control himself. The last drink was agony and anxiety traveling down his throat. A burning mix of anxiety and pleasure converging inside of him. On the counter still sat the expensive aged bottle of wine the cashier had given him and the Weeping Woman still looking to mock him. His head became heavy under the laughter-ridden sobs coming from the art piece, and soon it lulled into a dreamless heavy sleep. Those you get that make hours pass in the instance of seconds.

Upon waking up, Will brought his hand to rub his eyes, yet the sound of metal and a forced pulling on his hand stopped him. He pulled his hands once again, and again they were stopped. He looked back and saw his hands shackled at his sides, to metal chains hooked on the ground.

Will frowned, he began looking around, his eyes moving quickly from side to side. A chair, a couch and a ottoman, all in the same style, black and leathered. Dark hardwood floors, all in deep, cold colors, a rarity for the usual bright, warm color scheme of Florida. Across the room, a wall length bookshelf filled to the brim with thick, hardcover books. He was fully clothed as when he had fallen asleep. The faint sound of a harpsichord played softly from behind him. His neck was stiff when he turned; out of the corner of his eye he saw a hint of the old wooden instrument, and long white fingers coming in and out of frame.

Will heard whoever was behind him take a large breath through their nose. The music stopped. "The stench of alcohol doesn't let me smell your infamous aftershave."

Graham recognized the raspy tones immediately. A voice damaged from disuse during childhood and imprisonment, that he had trusted once and ruined his life. The younger man, though not really young anymore as he neared fifty, struggled against his bindings.

"Now, now Will. I don't want you to get hurt. Sit still a moment or you'll throw up all over yourself."

"Where are we?"

"A home one of my old patients signed over to me before he killed himself."

"Did you make him to kill himself? Or was that just a coincidence?"

Lecter chuckled and smiled to himself, "I see your years of drinking haven't affected your wit, much. You slur when you speak though, and you can barely hide your sweet Southern twang." The last few words came in a mocking, overdone accent.

Lecter walked around the chair, his step surprisingly quiet for the wooden floor. He sat at the edge of the coffee table, leaning forward, close to Will.  His head cocked slightly to the side, studying Will's face, he looked as though he were searching for something, and smiled once he seemed to have found it.

Graham turned his gaze to the side, not wanting to engage or rationalize that Hannibal Lecter was in front of him. Lecter grabbed his face, letting out a sigh, and forced Will’s head the other way, exposing the eye to him. The nerve endings on the left side of his face were weaker, to the point that he could barely feel Hannibal’s thumb trace the length of his scar. The doctor’s hand was pressed harshly against Will’s mouth. He could feel the fearful breaths coming from Will’s nose. Graham’s eyes closed.

“Are you afraid Will? I told you many years ago, I wouldn’t kill you. I’m rethinking this. I’m afraid you’ve disappointed me, I never thought this is what would become of you. Have you given up entirely? You wouldn’t have kept yourself alive had you not thought there was something left in you. What’s left in you, Will? You think Crawford might still come for you one of these days? No, no. Crawford retired already. You’re living bottle to bottle, no regard for life.”

Lecter looked down at his hand. It no longer covered Will’s mouth. Instead, Will’s teeth had now sunk into Hannibal’s flesh, at the base of his index finger, and they had through the length of Hannibal’s short speech. The doctor rose to his feet, pulling away the hand, and wiping it with a handkerchief. He studied it for a few seconds, with a faint grin on his lips.

Lecter slapped Will across the face. The impact from his bleeding hand leaving a blood stain along his scar, along the bright, red imprint of his long, thin, claw-like fingers.

Lecter turned his attention to his hand again, wiping away the blood nonchalantly, walking around Will's chair. Graham could no longer see him from where Lecter was standing. The only reference he had of Lecter's position were the footsteps that became more and more faint until a door creaked closed. Will was alone again.

Graham clenched his jaw. A scream perched under his chin. He feared if he let it out, he wouldn't be able to stop.

It had been years since Graham had last accessed his memory palace. He built it while he was in Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane to kill his time in the cell, and after had rarely found a reason to use it. All the events he had gone through where still there, and after going to Florida he didn’t need any of them. Though not so much of a palace, and more of a vast field with a shack sitting far in the distance, where he kept a few rooms for comfort. Outside, the grass was dead and brown, the creek was dry, and the moss covering the boulders was no longer, instead they were sandy and dirty. He made his way through the sawgrass, different types of plants and tiny green buds sticking to his shirt as he arrived at the shack. The door complained when he opened it. Inside, from the corners hung spiderwebs, the floor creaked, and the furniture was dusty.

A set of dark, wooden double doors were off to the side, the only thing that seemed to have remained as it had in the beginning. A younger version of his kidnapper opened the door and smiled charmingly.

“Hello Will, please come in.”

Will looked around. The doctor’s office was the same. The stag statue remained in its place. The chairs, the couches, the desk. All remained untouched and impeccable as they had always looked.

“You haven’t visited me in a while. I can only assume you have not needed my help.” He had made this room to create a sense of normalcy, a voice that at the time he trusted to be near him and help him when needed. After the events that followed his release from BSHCI he had stopped coming, therefore, the doctor was just as he had known him ten years past. “How can I assist you this time.”

He sat on the expensive black leather chairs he once had gotten used to. Now they felt too big, too expensive. He ran his hands through his face, feeling the evenness of his skin under his fingertips. He took a deep breath. He rose his head. His eyes determined and sober. His scar no longer wandered  his face.

“Remind me how to beat you.”

* * *

Off in the rooms of the mansion, Hannibal Lecter sketched Will Graham as a half man, half stag, like a centaur. Four strong legs well planted on to the ground. Halfway down his back the black hairs of the elk began to grow. His dark curls covered where his antlers began to grow. Large and mighty, Will looked ahead with determination. Once pleased with the drawing, Lecter went to rest.

The following morning, Lecter went to the room where he held Will. On his hand, he balanced a platter, which held their breakfast, on the other a pitcher of orange juice. He acted almost as though Will was not present as he set up a small table, and moved the coffee table in front of the chair, replacing it for a chair that gave him the proper height. He set up his plate and set down, smiling at Will.

"How was your night, Will?"

Graham glared ahead, unresponsive.

Lecter sighed, stood up, and folded the napkin on the table. Slowly, he approached the younger man, and squatted in front of him, so that they were somewhat leveled.

"How long has it been since your last drink? Is your body asking for one yet?" Lecter asked mockingly. He looked up into Will's eyes, “Do me a favor. Follow my finger with your eyes. Only your eyes." He held his finger up, and began to slowly move it to one side. Will complied, but his eyes were shaking as they attempted to follow. Lecter stood up, smoothing the fabric on his pants, and let out a small sigh. He placed his hand under Will’s grazing his thumb softly over his knuckles. The younger man’s hand trembled, the tip of his fingers were cold. “You smoke as well, right? The craving of nicotine is not quite as exasperating as the crave for alcohol. You know what’s coming, don’t you?”

Graham was not going to pretend he was ignorant the possibilities of the following days. His night had already been spent in darkness and loneliness, and not the one he was accustomed to. A gust of wind was a sting. A creak of the floor was a wip of his neck. A small bird crashing into the window in the midst of night was a loud gasp. Sleep came accompanied by a cold sweat, and the morning by a stiff neck. Now Lecter played doctor with him, and checked his progress. Nearly 24 hours without a drink.

Once again Lecter sat at his made-up dining table. He smiled at Graham. “Nothing like a protein scramble to start the day. Would you like some?”

Graham gagged at the sight of the food. A ball rose from the pit of his stomach and stuck on his throat, making Will cough to release it. He turned his head away. His head felt light. His skin turned pale. The smell of burnt, seasoned skin and eggs danced around Graham’s nose. It enticed him. It disgusted him.

“Are you going to throw up all over yourself, Will?”

Will felt his heart thumping at his temples. Lecter put the forkful of food into his mouth, flashing his fangs at Will.

“Mmm…” A slight turn of the his jaw, and a faint smirk.

Graham attempted to cough the ball out of his throat again. A long thread of drool hung from his lip and on the dark wooden floor bile mixed with blood and saliva. The agonizing, choked cough seized. Lecter looked at Graham; he continued with his meal. After his meal, Lecter cleaned Will’s mess like an owner cleaning after their pet. Lecter cared for him, that could not be denied. He made sure Graham had a comfortable, private way to relieve himself, put an IV with serum on his elbow, and continued to watch him from his desk.

Will sat on Hannibal’s chair. He held on to the arm rest, a drop of sweat running down his palm, in between his fingers. It clung onto the chair for as long as it could before dropping to the ground, disturbing the sound of the studio. With it, Will’s head jerked up. He felt a gush of wind on his face, like he was being sucked through a tube. A stench filled his nose; a mixture of sulfur and sewage. His palms went numb. He began to shake, rattling the peace in the room, and the cuffs that held him to the chair. Lecter looked up from his sketch, ever so calm. He approached Graham, whose eyes rolled back into his skull, shaking in his seat like a man being executed. Hannibal knelt in front of him, putting a hand on his forehead, then on his cheek, before standing and watching the seizure take place.

Lecter looked at his watch, measuring the time of the seizure. One minute, eight seconds. After seizures, comes a moment of confusion in which the mind and the body don’t connect. Will is confused, drowsy, eyes still blank, but responsive to those around him. Hannibal did a general check to see if the seizure had caused any brain damage, Will was clear, and Hannibal had more time to play with his mind.

Will’s returned to his body. The shirt he’d been wearing for the past day was drenched in sweat once again, the collar and chest yellowing from the previously dried sweat, stiff and rough in places, nevertheless a delight for the doctor. A mixture of salt, fear and desperation caught on his nose. A delightful scent, though not the usual burning sweetness he had come to associate with Will or the awful, cheap aftershave that created a sort of cacophony on his nose.

There was a pillar of darkness in the middle of the room. A man–not man but creature–tall and hard, like smooth ebony projecting from the floor. Stag antlers elevated from his head. An image he had seen before and recognized perfectly. Will’s look of fear and recognition answered any question Hannibal would have.

He smirked, “What do you see?”

“I see you as I always have.” His voice was low and rough, barely a whisper, hard on his throat due to his time without water.

A week prior to these events, one of Will’s most fond clients, an old Canadian man that returned to Florida every winter as an escape, had called him to make sure the motor of his boat was in shape just in time for his arrival. Graham was a diligent business owner, regardless of his alcoholism, he was highly functional–as long as he had a drink at hand.

Graham was now in the chair in Lecter’s Florida home. Sucked into a different reality, Will no longer stood neither in his mind palace, nor in Hannibal’s studio. He was somewhere in the middle, where the wooden chair had grown fungi as the days passed, and slowly the shackles became vines that bound his hands to the chair. In front of him, Hannibal remained at his desk, sketching as he mostly did during his capture. The desk was also growing moss, as had all the pieces of furniture that were scattered through the room, reaching for them from the ground up, like long arms seductively wrapping around a lover. Even the stand of his IV was getting covered in green. In the background the creek still ran, soft and quiet, barely masking the strokes of Lecter’s pencil against the parchment.

This odd treaty, in which Hannibal Lecter watched Will Graham crumble and the latter wasn’t publicly humiliated–publicly being key, as Lecter enjoyed teasing him in hallucinogenic states. Fear, Will’s strongest drive, took him over, and Lecter managed to paralyze him, tease him, remind him of better times. Derange him, once more.

The creek remained undisturbed, changing only on the growing vegetation, until sirens rung through the vast space. It circled around his head, and he saw lights flicker through the distance. Lecter rose, looked into the distance, out the window in the lucid world and instantly grabbed the scalpel he used to sharpen his pencil. He walked around the room, standing behind Graham. He ran his fingers through the younger man’s hair before grasping it and pulling his head to the side, exposing Will’s jugular, burying his nose into his hair.

Hannibal Lecter stabbed Will Graham expertly through the neck. He could feel no pain. Lecter’s hands covered in Will’s blood, he looked at his hand. Stained crimson, he slowly ran the tip of his tongue over the back of his hand. He tasted the former agent and inhaled the coppery scent of his blood flow out of his body.

The door slammed open. A shot was fired. A bullet penetrated the back of Lecter’s skull and exited through the front. Lecter fell forward. His face still hidden in Graham’s greying curls.

A couple of days after his disappearance, which now extended over a week, the Canadian man, Will’s loyal customer, called the police after a barrage of failed calls and visits to his shop. As Will Graham was a previous FBI agent and the captor of the most sought after killer of his time, the police understood the possibilities and importance of his disappearance, specially if it meant riding of Hannibal Lecter. The police plan was covert. The entire investigation was done as secret as possible, as Lecter’s connections were massive, and if it were to be Lecter, which was, who captured Graham, they did not want him getting away or hurting the former agent. Ultimately, activity was reported by the neighbors of one of Lecter’s homes, and the raid was put into place. Hence where Lecter was shot and ultimately killed.

Still, the legacy of the cannibal lived on, while the detective lived only attached to the articles on Lecter, though he remained the only man to defeat him. To say either was of lesser importance to each other’s story would be forgetting who they were. The great world war of two of the most complex minds in the modern world. One of a man with so many walls he was unmovable, except by rosey cheeks and star shaped hands, and another with a wild imagination, affected by the very nature  that surrounded him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments! Any type of critique is welcome! I will respond to all!!!


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